Valencia oranges
The coffee house on the corner has stayed open throughout the pandemic. You called in your order from outside the front door and were given a number. Then you could walk through one at a time to the makeshift patio in the alley in the back; and there it was, your order, on the table with your number. The tables had over-sized umbrellas against the rain. Against the cold there were tall propane heaters.
The inside is open now to half capacity; but we are in the back — Nils and I. Axel is coming late; he was called away to meet a parishioner in the emergency room; then, he was called back — the parishioner was sent home. Uncle Albert was joining us but decided it would be too hot.
The heat is coming; it is nearly here.
Nils has become a materialist, he says. I’m not sure what he means by that, so I ask.
He raps the metal table, picks his coffee up and sets it down again; he raps his forehead. “There is nothing but stuff,” he says. “And there is a reason for everything.”
“Almost,” I say without knowing what I’m going to say next. And I must say it too cheerily, for Axel growls back:
“Give me a for instance.”
“Of what?” Stalling for time.
“Something there’s no reason for.”
“The universe,” I decide.
“We may not yet know how that came to be. But one day, I assure you, we will.”
The server brings another coffee. Axel follows.
“Is my brother bothering you yet with his article from the Times?” Axel asks.
“No,” I say. “What article?”
“On cats and gold,” Axel says.
I don’t know what he means, so: “No,” I say again. “He’s become a materialist,” I say.
“Bosh,” says Axel. “He doesn’t know what it means.”
Nils doesn’t take the bait. He is pulling out a copy from his little leather backpack. He hands it to me. “Have you seen this?” he says.
“No,” I say. It begins with a picture of a woman in a yellow-gold dress. “Is this then about cats and gold?”
“K-a-t-z,” Nils spells, “and capital Gold,” he says. “That’s her,” he points. “You haven't been following this? About Katz, I mean,” he says.
“No, I say.”
Says Axel, “He doesn’t follow anything. You know that.”
“That's not quite true,” I say.
“No,” he says, “but it’s almost true.”
I scan. The article, much handed about by the looks, seems to be about a dinner party at Princeton. Some middle-aged professor and his young wife. They have invited a lover of Bach and his young wife, a director of a “Program in American Ideals,” and “the country’s ‘most influential conservative Christian thinker,’” — highlighted in yellow; he’s underlined Christian in red — who comes in a white suit with a bottle of 1997 Mersaut, also highlighted.
“How much, do you reckon?” Nils asks.
I shrug, “I have no idea.” Then, I guess $35 because I know it’s more than that.
“Yes,” Nils says, “35 x 3 x 9.”
“Oh. But . . . ,” I say.
“So,” Axel interruptss, “what my brother wants to know is what you think Jesus will do when he arrives.” He pauses. “He wants you to say that he’ll change that damn expensive wine into water.”
“Jesus is coming?” I ask, thinking “Why?”
“Surely!” Nils. “He’s been invited.” He points to the prayer: “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest,” also highlighted I see.
Axel says, “I don't think he’ll change it into water. He’ll have brought Valencia oranges — doesn't he live in Spain now? — and he'll turn it into sangria.”
“But Valencia oranges,” I say. “They don’t come from Spain. They come from California.”
07.18.22
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